


Stories to Pass the Time

by poisontaster



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-29
Updated: 2006-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories to Pass the Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wrenlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenlet/gifts).



"So tell me the story," she says when she comes back from the bathroom wearing nothing but a frilly tank-top thing and matching panties. He's fascinated by her thighs. His fingers ache for them. She flings herself down on the bed next to him.

He watches her writhe and wriggle to get all her hair out from under her shoulders before he turns on his side and puts his hand over her stomach. "Aren't you bored with that old story yet?" he asks, even though he knows she's not.

She makes wide eyes and scoffs. " _Bored with the story_?" she demands. "It's only the greatest story ever told! Clearly you have not felt the _power_ of the story that you can make these…wild, crazy _aspersions_ against it!"

"'Aspersions'?" he repeats, amused. The flat of his hand covers nearly her whole belly. He rucks up the silky-fine material of the tank top and kisses just above her navel.

Her fist clunks lightly into his shoulder. She hits like a girl. Even so, he feels raw and unready again when she touches him, like he's still sixteen, still just a boy, still just 'Rory's boyfriend,' barely seen. "I was kind of proud of that one," she says, unaware. She's so often unaware. It took him a while to learn it was on purpose. Hence, the story.

He huffs an exaggerated sigh and rolls his eyes. "Once upon a time," he begins.

"Oh goodie!" She drums her feet against the mattress and then rolls, pushing him on his back so she lies draped over him, her face only inches from his. Her eyes sparkle. They're really nothing like Rory's. "Story time!"

He puts his arms around her, hands cupping comfortably around her ass and marveling that he can do this now. That she'll let him. He holds up a finger and gives her a quieting look. "Once upon a time," he repeats and she zips her fingers across her lips and tosses the imaginary key. "There was a carpenter named Dean."

"Cute Dean," she prompts. The little wriggle that she does against his body interests him in so many ways it takes his brain a moment to catch up.

His mouth quirks. "A carpenter named _Cute_ Dean," he amends. He doesn't mind it if it's her calling him cute.

"And was there a gorgeous, brilliant _plucky_ heroine named Lorelai?" she demands, tossing her hair aside and bending to brush her lips dry and light across his throat.

"Am I telling this story or are you?"

"So sorry," she says, muffled now by his skin. "Don't mean to interfere with creative inspiration."

"That's better," he says. His fingers tighten on the curves of her when she first licks and then bites. She squeaks a little and laughs, low and rich, vibrating through his Adam's apple. "So, _yes_ , it does just so happen there was a gorgeous, brilliant…"

"Plucky."

"Mmmm," he agrees, eyes half-closing. Then: "What does that mean?"

She pulls back and he regrets asking immediately. "It's like… _plucky_ ," she says, completely unhelpfully. "Full of pluck."

He raises his eyebrows and pinches her. She squeaks again and her hips roll against him. "Oh, yeah. Full of pluck," he answers and she grins and bends down. This time it's little kitten sucks in the pit of his throat and he groans softly, his thumbs pressing helplessly into the soft hollows of her hips.

"Story," she reminds him.

"So there was this _plucky_ , gorgeous woman named Lorelai." She takes his hand and shoves it deeper between their bodies so that it cups her. The thin satiny material is damp, slick and she rocks a little against his fingertips, driving his knuckles—not unpleasantly—into his groin. "Who, for all her pluckiness, didn't apparently know how to read an oil gauge…"

"Hey!" She sits and makes a sharp jab of her hips against his. He thinks she means it to be punishing, but mostly it's just friction against his already-hard cock and pushes his fingers rougher against her. She seems to lose her train of thought for a second, eyes closing and face turning peaceful and intense. He'd like to know how she does that. Not right now, you understand, but sometime.

Some time when she's not rubbing herself against his fingertips, the slippery softness of her panties turning slicker and somehow less smooth. He wiggles a bit and slips a nail under the smooth lace edging enough to push them aside, plunge one long, callused finger into her.

She shivers deep within and then grips, strong muscles that he thinks about way too often when he's not even with her; the way she makes him harder than he's ever been and then milks him so soft that he feels shrunken. This is, he thinks, the difference between women and girls, knowing what your cunt is for, growing into it. She knows how to make it please her, how to make _him_ please her and turn himself inside out to do it.

"Oh," she says and then she laughs, deep and full. "Oh, that's good."

He slips his thumb through the juice of her to her clit, full and plump and traces it like he'd trace the head of his own cock. He watches her head fall back, hair like a dark halo around her shoulders and her mouth open.

"The point," he says quietly, pitching his voice low and soothing, "is that the lovely Lady Lorelai found herself stuck on the quiet and lonely road, miles away from her home and unable to reach out to her loved ones."

"Stupid cell phone towers," she mutters, faint frown lines patterning across her forehead. He presses harder, drives deeper and she gasps, thighs flexing against his hips. He likes how strong she is, calves, thighs and cunt. Sometimes, when she rides him especially hard, he'll bruise. They don't show, but he feels them, points of soreness where her bones crashed and ground into his, where the sharp points of her knees dug into his skin.

Her hands are loose on his arms just above the elbow, for balance only, but as he strokes deeper, harder—adding a second finger to touch that smooth heat inside her—they close on him, fingernails digging. "Oh," she says. He loves her _oh_. " _Oh._ "

She shrugs one shoulder and the thin, gauzy strap of her tank top slips, the cloth itself sliding to catch on the tip. She drags his free hand up to her breast, writhes into his palm and traces her nipple across his lifeline.

 _God,_ he thinks. _Want you. Just…want you._

He doesn't say such things aloud. He's got years of his older but not wiser predecessors in front of him teaching him that lesson. Like a cat, she isn't his and never will be. He might persuade her to stay a while, petted and stroked, but in her own time and on her own terms. Anything else brings out the wild in her, apt to scratch and bite and leave wounds that bleed and turn feverish.

He doesn't compare her much to Rory, but there are places where the sameness goes bone deep.

He pulls her down to his mouth, sucking and biting while she rocks and writhes on his fingers. Tight as she is, when she comes, he doesn't think Moses himself could part that red sea. He coaxes her out of her top and his used fingers are prune-y and silken with her come. He paints it across one furled, taut nipple and then licks it away while she hooks small, tickling fingers under the waistband of his shorts and tugs them down. She shoves them the rest of the way off with her feet and occupies her hands with him. She's not gentle, but gentleness isn’t what he wants from her. Both them are past carefulness. He's hard. He's so hard for her.

She teases, gliding the tip of his cock back and forth from clit to labia without letting him in until he pleads, voice hoarse and breaking: "Please. God, please."

In more lovesick and delirious moments he feels like he's joined a cult. The Cult of Gilmore Men and that's their prayer: _Please. God, please._ Rory told him a story once too. She told him about a bunch of women called the Maenads. They would fuck men and then rip them apart with their bare hands. Which, indirectly, is how she taught him about irony too.

At the time, he thought it sounded pretty awful.

It never occurred to him the men might like it. Being torn apart.

The head of his cock slips between her lips and then the heat and hard-muscled pressure that had been on his fingers is all around his dick. He paws her hips and pulls her down, grinding up, grinding in. She's not small, but like most women, in his hands she _feels_ tiny and he marvels how his hands can lie about something that much.

"Yeah." She growls and she sighs, rock and roll goddess. "Fuck. Yeah." She only swears like this, on him, when she's under his skin and he's under hers. He feels like he always knew this was there, though.

The first time was a disaster. She'd giggled the whole time, he'd come too soon. Though she didn’t seem to mind how he made it up to her; he might not have as much experience, but he did believe in doing the things he does well.

The second time was a miracle, because he never thought it was even possible. Now they've stopped counting, stopped talking about it, stopped doing anything but meeting like this; hours on end. He doesn't think about it too much, except in the way he thinks about it _all the time_ and every time her number shows up on his cell, every time her fingers brush casually across his when their paths cross and their eyes trade signals of negotiation and surrender, it's a triumph.

"Come on," he says, swiveling deep, touching every part of her he can. "Let me see. God, let me see you, Lor."

It's not the answer to all his prayers, but it's the answer to some when her shoulders snap back and her head falls back, her face breaks and opens. She comes around him in hard, rhythmic, tidal waves and, because it's the first time today and it's been a while, that's enough. More than enough. His fingers bruise those smooth, strong-plump thighs as he empties himself and his moan is muffled by her mouth coming down on his, the kiss of the goddess.

"So good," she mutters between licks and bites to his lips, stinging the blood to the surface. He looks into her eyes and sees nothing, nothing he can cling to. This time it doesn't terrify him, though. This time, with this Gilmore, it's a relief.

"You didn't finish the story," she says sleepily, snuggling her face into his skin. They never finish the story. He thinks that means something too, but he's still working on that one.

"Oh. Well, the Lovely Lorelai meets Cute Dean and she says…"

"That's not right."

He smoothes the hair back from her face with one hand. Her eyes are closed. "What do you mean?"

"I had met you before. Before that day on the road." Her voice slurs; soon she'll sleep.

He smiles. "No. You really didn't."

_This can't last forever, she'd said once, when she'd screwed up the courage to say anything at all._

_I don't expect it to, he answered, the truth._

_How long do you think we'll last?_

_He kissed her forehead. Long as we do._


End file.
